SUNDAYS BELLS

up early/up all night 
fordy dagster sees mist out condensation windows sunday AM.
like narnia/like the sea.
he sees the 
SILENCE out there.

its beautiful of course and he smokes on the back step/piled up wet gold leaves/listens to the trees drip
and 
he
tells Diane.


BUT


inside is a 
RIOT 
in his head today/his mind is stabbing him in the stomach.


fordy dagster goes out in it/without breakfast or tea or washing.
seize the day and all that . . . JUST GOES OUT


BUT


he HAS to be told/no momentum of his own/ennui RULES all his years.
fordy dagster knows this
and
does
what hes told.


chipsticks and a red can from the shop fordy dagster is walking across a white football pitch
STOPS
when he can see nothing but the wet grass shining under his boots.


hes eating chipsticks/salt and vinegar/wipes hand on jeans.


hes smoking still/alone and nothing/white world would be heaven if the sun came out
and glowed
dull
life.


shadows appear and stake out the goal nets.


fordy dagster in the cemetery looks at the plastic coloured faces on new ceramic graves/prefers
the
old
stones
wonky in the weeds.  everyone who died in the 90s looks 70s somehow.


black iron fence is row of spears/a row of bad teeth/has 1000 wet white cobwebs sagging.
fordy dagster counts them
watched
by 
a
dog walking man.


of course all the time the church bells are ringing.
didnt narrator say?
cant you hear them?


fordy dagster been listening since they started/distant distraction 
chiming
in 
his 
unslept bed.


fordy dagster walks the pub mile up the hill/past the bench
of 1000 memories/past the pub 
of 1000 memories/up the car park steps
of 1000 memories.


fordy dagster is walking past where the shop was/shut now/they only had superkings and wholemeal and odd cake and
they
sat
in
the
back watching tv in their living room till you called them out to pay.


past where the phone box was where fordy dagster
used
to 
slide drunk 10p's calling dealers and faraway friends.


theres a bench.  its soaking wet.  fordy dagster walks to the church
always
aware a madman 
lives
up
here
tho he dont seem so made anymore/still, never say his name
or
he
WILL
appear.  hes done it before/he is legend/laughs like a donkey.


the bells are load and ringing and from this close they fill fordy dagsters whole mind/briefly he is nothing but bells/too briefly hes surrended/too briefly/leaning
on
an
old
wall/smoking again he opens his red can.


still early still misty/he pities the posh in their square town houses


(he remembers when one used to sell timber) 


and 
pities the lucky in their semis and cottages
this sunday
morning
racket
cos when close up like this
its
full
of bum practise notes and kind of awful.  so much better in the distance.
all charm gone/maybe inside its better?


its a pretty village but no morning for a hangover/fordy dagster
wonders
what
saturday 
night
village drunks do right now.


so fordy dagsters in the graveyard/sees a round vicar
with
a
shopping
bag/says MORNING.  like Trumpton up here.


hes standing in the old bit of the graveyard.
looks
like
Silent Hill.
looks
like
Sleepy Hollow.  tall weeds and old stone/low fence to the marsh.
mist dripping off the oak trees/unable to loose himself
in

the 
racket anymore
he
walks
down the hill
passing
the same 1000 memories.
moving
in
the
other direction.